


five times spencer reid confesses

by jordantodd



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Bisexual Jennifer Jareau, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Daddy Issues, Gen, Heavy Angst, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I’m projecting, Lesbian Emily Prentiss, Mommy Issues, Other, Religion, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jordantodd/pseuds/jordantodd
Summary: a laugh escapes from him, and he looks up at the beautiful boy in front of him and wonders if all love feels like this, like a dream.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

He'd never really been religious. 

Of course, Spencer Reid knew all about religion. He knew about Christianity and Islam and Buddhism and just about everything about religion. He knew why people turned to it. But he wasn't religious. He figured he was too critical for religion, too analytical and logical and hyper-aware of everything. It made it hard to believe in a God when he knew the ins and outs of everything. 

His mom didn't mind. She herself was atheistic, having been raised by a strict catholic mother with strict catholic ways that turned her children hate-filled and rebellious. He found it ironic that she'd only managed to nurture his mother's disdain for religion, for the establishment, every prayer was a log in the fire.

When things went wrong, his mom had simply told him that things happen, for good or for bad, and that was just how the universe was. She told him it had no bias - how could it? Why would it? What would the universe have to gain from punishing people, if there was no reward for the good-doers.

Sometimes Spencer can't help but disagree. He can't help but feel a little cursed, like the universe is pelting a punishment down on him constantly, every hour of every day. Was his father's abandonment a punishment for his sins? His mother's illness? Tobias Hankel? He wonders some days if his genius is a punishment.

His dad did not share the same sentiment as his mom. William Reid was a proud man with a reputation to uphold and a fierce devotion to the church. On rough days, Spencer pondered how his father could love something so intangible, so hard to justify. He decided that was exactly why - it was so easy to conjure up an idea of what God was, what God stood for, everything was so up in the air. His own son was not, he was very real and unabashed in his miracle work. He could not be dictated, interpreted, debated, his words could not be moulded by William Reid to fit a narrative. 

He went to catholic school. They were brutal - places like that always are, to strange boys and quiet boys and boys who cared a little too much about academia and too little for boyish things. They were brutal to different boys and feminine boys and boys refused to just stay quiet and stay out of trouble.

He remembers the way the bible felt beneath his fingers, flimsy pages and torn up covers because young boys had no respect for objects, let alone respect for the passages and prayers they were spoon-fed. He wondered how this book, so tiny and beat up with pages ripped out from its bindings, could hold everything he needed to know about his life, how to live it, he wondered how this book alone could distinguish right from wrong.

Even after he graduated, he went to church every Sunday. 

Churches are strange places, he thinks. They're so cold, so quiet, even when the pews are filled with a congregation of devotees singing, they're still so.. empty. He hates how everything is so sacred. He hates how there's a man who stands at the altar and he preaches about family and friendship and love and treating people right and he hates it because he knows that William Reid hears this, he feels it echo through his rib cage, pounded in by song and prayer, and elects to ignore it.

Even God's word is not strong enough to make William love his son.

When his father leaves, he keeps going. Every sunday morning, he walks to the church. The church that smells like candle smoke and dust and promises stuck between flimsy little pages. And he prays, and he prays, and he prays until he can't think about anything other than a constant prayer for repentance, a constant apology for everything he's done wrong in his life because maybe he should have tried not to be a strange boy, a quiet boy, a boy who cared a little too much for academia and clearly not enough for boyish things. Maybe that would bring him back.

When Spencer is 17, now with a doctorate, he repents. It's the first week of summer, the sun blazes overheads and the concrete pavement burns his feet even through shoes. School's out, and it feels so wrong to walk past groups of teenagers - people his age! - but be so alone.

The church is cold, it always is, despite sunlight streaming through the stained glass. It paints his skin a kaleidoscope of colours, blues and reds dancing across his bare hand. It feels unwelcoming.

The confession booth is even more unyeilding, a small room with white walls and stone floors and an uncomfortable wooden bench beside the panel. He can feel the presence of the priest on the other side, waiting, waiting to hear what sick sins have been committed.

So Spencer talks, and he begs to be forgiven, hoping that maybe this tiny room makes him loud enough for God, if he's even there, to hear. He confesses, and the priest tells him to pray ten Our Fathers and six Hail Marys. 

He prays. He prays, he prays, he prays and it finally feels like he's been forgiven.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a lot softer but prepare for some angst later
> 
> also tw for brief mentions of bullying/homophobia

The boy beside Spencer slurs when he speaks. His hands dance along Spencer's arm, inching its way up, then across his collar bone. The pads of his fingers are calloused but gentle with their touch, and he has to stop himself from coming undone beneath the boy's touch.

It wasn't meant to be like this, he tells himself, this is wrong and bad and shouldn't be happening. He wonders then why he can't will himself to stop it.

They're drunk. It's not exactly legal, per say, Spencer's only 19 but it's happening nonetheless because what does one expect when two college roommates have a week off and no family to go back to.

Roommates. They're roommates, Spencer tells himself, nothing more. They live under the same roof purely out of contractual obligation because Spencer really couldn't handle the loneliness. And when the year ended and Spencer would move on to the third year of his second doctorate, things would end. Everything would go back to normal, or as normal things could be for the genius. 

They're both drunk and Spencer knows that being drunk means being impaired and lacking judgement but he never thought he'd lack such agency over himself. 

Spencer knows now that he likes boys. He knows that he catches himself staring a few seconds too much when his roommate dances around the kitchen as he cooks his third bowl of ramen of the day, or watches the newest Friends episode with a childlike fascination. 

It seemed people picked up on it before he did. School was always difficult, being an outcast already. But catholic school boys were ruthless when it came to Spencer being too effeminate, too smart, too uninterested in football or games. So when they suspected he was anything other than straight, it was like the gates opened for them - they finally, finally, had a valid reason to attack him. They didn't have to try and hide it, either. 

Escaping high school, escaping his family offered some reprieve. For once he no longer felt like everyone around him scrutinised him, broke down every action of his to try and decide that he was gay and that was an issue. He was whatever he wanted to be and it didn't matter.

And yet, six years later, why did he still feel so wrong? Why did the simple touch of his roommate, innocent enough, make him feel like he needed to pray, beg for forgiveness?

It's a hot summer. The skies overhead are constantly shrouded in deep, grey clouds in the evening. Thunderstorms ripple throughout the night, drenching everything in this sort of heat where the air is thick and heavy with water and everything just feels slow, like wading through honey.

He decides that's why his skin burns at the touch of his room mate. It's why he feels so out of it - in combination with the alcohol - so out of control of himself. It's a hot summer and things are weird now but they won't be the same later.

The words come out before he can stop himself.  
"I think I'm bi," Spencer says, and through the haze his roommate peers up at him. He gives a chuckle, lifting his hand to cup Spencer's face with an unfound tenderness, one he's never quite experienced before but it makes him just want to lean in closer, the hold him until they melded together. 

"I think so too," his roommate affirms with slurred words. His second hand moves to cup the other side of Spencer's face. He survey's the brunette with curious eyes, frowning.  
"You have sad eyes," he says, like it explains everything. Spencer feels a thumb trail down his cheek, steady and slow like a teardrop. It grazes over his lip slightly. 

"I do?" Spencer inquires, and he shifts on the couch. He just wants to melt into the boy's palms, have himself be rebuilt from the ground up by those calloused hands. He decides he'd give anything for it. He decides he'd hollow out his chest so this boy would have a palace, a throne made of bone where his laughter rings like a steady heartbeat.

"You smile sometimes, but it doesn't reach your eyes," The boy murmurs sadly. He moves, pulling himself up until he's almost on Spencer's lap. It's not sexual, he couldn't even imagine it being that way, his touch is so delicate, so intimate, but so intentional as it unwinds him.  
"I smile when I see you," He notes, and the boy laughs a little.  
"Yeah, you do. It's sweet."

They sit in silence for a moment, the genius curiously watching as the boy seems to deliberate. A hand ventures back, fingers weaving through his dark hair, but they quickly pull away.  
"I'm so scared to break you," The boy finalised with a sad smile, "You're just so tiny,"  
There's only a year between them, they both know that, but Spencer can't deny that looks a lot younger. Despite being six foot, his skinny frame and boyish face made him look a lot weaker than he actually was.

"Birds have hollow bones, you know," Spencer begins, rambling as he does best, "it allows them to fly. Human's can't fly, part of it's probably because our bones are so heavy and dense." 

There's silence for a moment, and Spencer can't help but worry that he screwed it all up with his facts, but the boy just presses his hands kindly against his thin face. He comes forward, and their lips softly meet for a brief, flitting second. And then they're gone. 

Pulling back, the boy smiles cheekily, like he's discovered the answer all the secrets of the universe, and Spencer decides that maybe, just maybe he did.  
"Airplanes. Humans can fly."

A laugh escapes from him, and he looks up at the beautiful boy in front of him and wonders if all love feels like this, like a dream. 

"Yeah, we always find a way."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angst. so much angst. this is a bit of a word vomit, sorry (also! please! comment! sir i’m begging you i haven’t spoken to another human being in weeks!)

Spencer never really had friends. It wasn't in his schedule, it didn't slot into the meticulous plan he'd set out for himself since the day he could talk. He knew what he had to do - was meant to do, rather. Graduate high school early, go to college early, live up to his reputation as Las Vegas' local genius, and never fall behind.

The next step in the plan was work. He liked working, he was the sort of person who functioned best under pressure or when his mind was racing with ideas. It fuelled him, motivated him to keep pushing further. So, when he got the chance to join the BAU, everything felt perfect. He worked a 9-5 filing paperwork and solving cases, giving profiles via email to police stations across the country. 

It was thrilling, and he loved every second of it. Working at the BAU was like a constant game of cat and mouse, or maybe even chess. He found himself constantly getting in each unsub's head, predicting his next move with a terrifying accuracy that solidified his role as resident genius - of course, Hotch has never doubted his capabilities. But the others had, unsure of the boy, barely twenty and so skinny it looked like he was bound to snap in half if the wind blew the wrong way. 

And then the day was over. He'd pack up for the night, take the evening bus home to his cramped and cluttered apartment. Alone, as always, he'd brew a cup of tea and sit on the couch, absorbing whatever book he'd picked up at the library.

He tried to pretend it wasn't a distraction. Eyes glued to the page, refusing to glance up at the doorstep where his mail dropped, or up at the photos on the walls, refusing with a stubbornness that really just verified that she was built into him, she was part of him, there was no way he could detach himself from her. 

He turned the pictures around.

Really, Reid always knew it was silly to try and escape his mother. He'd known it from the day he first saw one of her episodes, so entirely out of it. He'd screamed and cried and been cradled in his dad's arms - before curling up on the scratchy cotton bedsheets and listening to his mother's soft but gravelly voice as she read to him. He knew that no matter where he went in life, she would always be there, in his shadow.

He couldn't pretend she wasn't one of the reasons he took the job up in the first place - hell, she was the reason he even went to MIT. To support her, to make her proud. Spencer knew deep down that he couldn't have just shut up and pretended he was a normal kid of average intelligence and that there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Maybe then his dad would have stayed. 

Some days Spencer's angry about his father. He wants to scream, or cry, or punch a wall, only stopped by the reminder of his security deposit, or his elderly neighbours, or his pride. When he was young, far too young, he'd drink away his anger until it came roaring back in the mornings, this time with a hangover. 

Some days he wonders how could he, how could that bastard leave me like this, how could he abandon me when he knows how much it'll break me. He wonders how he could be related to such a selfish man, and he's disgusted in himself for it.

Other days, Spencer understands. He hates that he understands - he hates that he's been trying to do the exact same thing for years now, and he's half succeeded. If it weren't for his remorse, maybe he would have fully. He understands now just what happened then, and he doesn't blame William for it.

He distracts himself with games of chess and books, at work he buries his head in cases like an ostrich in the sand, all too afraid to confront the danger. He just hopes the letters make up for it all.

Spencer never really had friends. Then, and even now at the BAU, he wonders if he'll ever cross the line between colleague and friend. There are some coworkers he wants to befriend more than others, particularly one golden-haired Jennifer Jareau. 

He feels guilty every time he looks at her from across the bullpen. Wrong, creepy, like some school boy who never learned to act normally around girls. Except.. she looks back. With a tender smile and eyes like the blue sky. It's so grim and grey in the office, but she glows with a halo of confidence and warmth and a liking for him. Him, as a person and not just a colleague. Him, Spencer Reid, the twenty-something with a coffee addiction and a messy tie who sometimes needs to wear glasses if he's reading. 

It's the first time in a while he feels loved. 

Of course, as the years go on, the team unfolds. Everything they've gone through together works to bring them closer.

He and JJ go to a Redskins game together. He tries to keep his mouth clamped shut, but by halftime he can't stop himself from spewing out facts about the team, or the history of football, or how soccer was originally played with pigs bladders. And she soaks it all up with a grin on her face, and he feels like maybe being a genius isn't too bad.

Elle's become a sister to him. He doesn't miss how her steely gaze flits up from her work every few minutes to judge him, see how he's doing. She's new, and something tells Reid she's not permanent, but he can't help but bask in her warmth. When he sees her out on the field he wonders if she's always been this cool, collected, or if she's got something back at home keeping her going.

Derek is his brother in everything but blood. He balances the scales, and he knows Spencer Reid like the back of his hand. Somehow, somehow he always knows when something is wrong, despite Spencer's best efforts to hide it. He knows, and he's got fire in his eyes and he won't stop until he makes it right. No one makes Spencer feel quite as safe.

Aaron and Gideon have never doubted him. Unlike everyone else, everyone since the day he was born, who had looked at him - a scrawny kid with a book glued to his arm, purple stained beneath his eyes - and underestimated him. But they see the determination that blazed inside him, a roaring fire that screams inside his stomach most days, and they see the days it dims. He hates that some days, some days when he'd sit down to write to his mother, he almost writes 'Dad' when he talks about them. 

Garcia's eccentric. She wears bright colours and clashing prints and she likes her coffee just as sweet as he does. Her office is decorated with posters and figurines and comic books and everything and anything all at once. It's gaudy and it's obscene and it's so wonderfully Penelope. She always grins from ear to ear when he enters, rows of brilliantly white teeth between red painted lips. 

They clicked. It was like for once, someone got it. Someone else had a brain that worked like lightning, someone knew what it was like to be so angry all the time, so bitter, but so driven. So when he sat there, mulling everything over, twisting his hands together as he avoided her gaze, it felt right. 

"You know, I write her a letter every day," His voice is soft, subdued, he's so used to the feeling of being heard now that it feels weird to speak so quietly. Her response is short, blunt, straight to the point. That's nice. 

It was nice. It was nice that he sat down every day on the bus with a notebook and pen, scribbling down every thought, every feeling, every occurrence as if it would somehow make her appear there to experience it all. As if it would make up for it all, each word is a beg for forgiveness but lost love cannot be regained and forgiveness is not a word familiar on her tongue, Diana Reid does not speak forgiveness.

When he explains it to her, it feels right. Like the weight that's been sitting on his chest for all these years is lifted, and he can breathe. It feels right, it feels good, he can feel the love radiating off of her and he basks in it. 

He feels like maybe everything will be alright.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don’t know anything about drugs sorry

Spencer liked to think his life was going alright. A job at the BAU in a team of people he loved more than anyone else, saving people and putting his genius to use. Things seemed to be heading in the right direction.

And then they weren’t. 

Tobias Hankel happened, and suddenly everything was unravelling. The very fabric of his world had been violently ripped at the seams, and he knew nothing would be the same. 

He tells them that he doesn’t remember most of it. A combination of the medication and the sheer trauma had built a roadblock in his mind, and he couldn’t remember more than a couple of flashes. He doesn’t think they’re fully convinced.

He knows Morgan notices his entire body tense up whenever he hears a gunshot. It’s stupid, he thinks, and he shouldn’t because this is a key part of his job and how was he supposed to use a gun himself if the very sight of one made him clench his fists so hard his nails left cuts in his palms. He knows Morgan notices, because of course he does, Morgan is careful and he knows Spencer better than almost anyone else there. Spencer suspects the agent knows more about him than he does, and he doesn’t like it. 

He knows JJ looks up every time he enters the bullpen, he knows the smile she flashes is more than just courtesy, it’s a promise that he’s safe here. He just wonders if that smile drops, replaced with concern when he turns to test his desk chair, wobbling it slightly. Making sure it won’t tip. He didn’t know what he’d do if it did, if he’d break down or if he’d somehow manage to keep himself composed despite being constantly on the brink of falling apart.

Elle is gone now. After what happened with Randall Garner, he can’t expect her to stay. He could tell something shifted within her - behind those fierce eyes say something fearful, like a cornered animal. And like a cornered animal, she was erratic and irrational and she made bad decisions which ultimately meant she had to leave. To get better. Some days, Spencer wonders if he should have done that too.

The new girl, Emily, she’s nice. Reid decides early on that he likes her because she doesn’t pry. He knows she can feel the tension in the air still, he knows she knows something bad happened. But she doesn’t ask. Instead, she keeps her head down at work but commands the room with confidence and charm when needed. She’s no Elle, but he likes her.

Tobias Hankel tied him into a knot. 

See, Spencer’s studied knots, he knows all about them and sometimes when there’s nothing better to do he tries to tie the cord of his headphones into something complex just so he can untie it again. He figures he’s gotten quite good at it now.

The knot Hankel twisted him into isn’t one he can solve, and he despises it. He hates that this man, this monster, wormed his way into his brain and mixed everything around and just ruined his life. 

He thinks a lot about his time in captivity. He thinks about how he died and came back, he thinks about Hotchner getting his message, he thinks about the Dilaudid. 

Oh, the Dilaudid. He didn’t even like it, the high it gave him wasn’t even satisfactory any more, it was just the only thing that made him not feel like he was dying all the time. Most nights he’s wake up with a mouth like the Sahara and wild eyes, cold sweat coating his body slick and all he could think about was the high and how bad he needed it. It made him think of the anti-drug commercials he’d had to watch at school and the way he’d see those people and think how awful they looked and how awful they must have felt. And he knew he couldn’t stop. 

When Morgan pulls him aside after work, Spencer knows what it’s about.

“Are you okay, Spence?” He inquires with a soft voice, softer than Spencer’s ever heard before. Each word wavers with concern, and he can’t even bear to look at the man in front of him.

“I’m- yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” The brunette manages to stammer out, eyes glued to the floor. He tries to move past the agent, but a gentle hand stops him.

“Those cuts on your hand look pretty bad, Reid. At least let me clean them for you.” Morgan offers, and he makes to effort to hide the pleading tone of his voice. His hands are much larger than Spencer’s own, and much less bony. Morgan turns his hand carefully, unwrapping Spencer’s spindly fingers from the clenched fist as he turns it palm-side up. That’s one of the strange things about Morgan, he finds - for a man so imposing and muscular, he attends things with such tenderness and attention to detail. 

Morgan leads him to where the first aid kit sits, in the cupboard beneath the coffee machine, and they sit down on the tiles. Pretty much everyone else had left by now, but the lights on near the bullpen indicate Hotch is still in his office. The taller man begins to swab the nail marks gently and then wraps a bandage around the palm of Spencer’s hand. As he does so, he speaks softly;  
“It’s the gunshots, right, Spence?”

He just nods.

“I’ll talk to Hotch about it,” Morgan suggests, “We’ll sort something out. I promise.” He looks up, dark-eyed and concerned, surveying the doctor’s face. Spencer wants to call him out on it, but he knows Morgan’s profiling him because he cares. He cares and he knows that something else is up, he knows and he doesn’t even need to say for Spencer to know he knows. 

There’s a pregnant pause as Spencer deliberates. Silence hangs thick and heavy in the air, but Morgan never pushes, never oversteps. He waits, and he waits, and they both know he’ll keep waiting until he’s ready.

“It’s the Dilaudid.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is long. like ridiculously long. like as i was writing this i would look at the word count and think this is not right but somehow it was. i cried over this chapter and not because it was angsty, but because it was a pain to write. this was not betad because i mentally can not handle that. hope you enjoy it
> 
> content warning for the conversation with hotch - violence and homophobia

There are some people in this world who are so obsessed with the concept of a fallout or apocalypse that they build expansive bunkers, pouring millions into equipment and rations alongside it. They've got pantries lined with tins of beans and toilet paper. For them, the apocalypse would be the sun snuffing out, an asteroid colliding with the earth, maybe a zombie virus or nuclear fallout.

For Spencer Reid, the apocalypse would be his team finding out he was bisexual. 

The thing is, he knew it would have to happen eventually.

That was just the way things like this were. Someone would bring it up, in some way or another - perhaps Morgan would ask him if he'd ever actually *successfully* hit on someone and he'd point out that he actually had, and that the guy'd bought him a couple of drinks. Or maybe they'd have to deal with a hate crime case and the team wouldn't miss the way he can't quite look at the body, always choking up on his words. When he was here, Gideon had casually commented about how his son was single over lunch because Gideon just somehow always knows.

Whatever scenario would take place, Spencer decided, it would have to happen eventually.

It wasn't that he was scared. He knew they were accepting - Emily and JJ were so obviously in love with each other, yet so oblivious to the fact their feelings were mutual. The others were supportive and constantly trying to get them to finally admit their feelings. So, Spencer knew that if and when he came out, they would take it in full stride. 

But he just didn't want to. The team was his family in everything but blood, but not even his real family knew. Despite their acceptance, he didn't want it to change the way they saw him. He didn't know if it would shift the playful banter between him and Derek, he didn't like the concept of JJ or Penelope bringing up guys they thought were cute to him because, hey, you like guys too right?

Even then, wasn't as simple as walking into the briefing room and saying "Hey, you guys know I'm bi right?" - it seemed like these days, no time was the right time.

It started with a case. Standard, white male in his thirties abducting young women. Most cases they dealt with followed the same blueprint, but solving this one had been particularly difficult. To celebrate their success on the case, Morgan had insisted the team join him on a night out at a club. Spencer knew he could have said no, given an excuse about having some paperwork to catch up on or really any other mind-numbingly boring task. But JJ had pleaded him to join and even Rossi was going so he couldn't be the only person to say no to her.

So here he was, now, sat at a table with Penelope, Emily and Rossi whilst Morgan does what he does best, apparently - hit on girls at bars. JJ is off somewhere getting drinks, and Hotch is busy texting Jack's babysitter. Music pours through every pore of his skin, shaking him down to his bones, so deep he can barely compute the conversations around him. 

Rossi's droning on about some encounter he had back in 87 in a bar 'just like this, just a little more polished up, high calibre if you will', and Emily is nodding along, though Spencer sees how her gaze keeps flitting back to the bar. He bites back a grin. 

"So, there I was, whisky in one hand and the other dow-" JJ's footsteps grow louder as she approaches, setting a round of shots down, eliciting whoops and cheers from everyone else. She's got a silly, slightly tipsy smile on her face and her mascara is already smudged a little beneath her eyes. Morgan's just managed to break away from the huddle of women that cocooned around him, jogging over to the table.

"Shots? Really, JJ, if you wanted to get me wasted tonight you could at least make it a bit more subtle," He winks at the blonde, who just rolls her eyes. As she slips into a seat, she motions for everyone to take their shot glasses, but Hotch respectfully declines. 

"Come on, old man," Prentiss teases. 

"I'd rather not have to deal with the hangover on the plane," he explains, pushing the glass away from him and standing up. "I'll be heading to the hotel, so if any of you need to contact me-"  
"Call, not text, we know," Penelope grins and takes Hotch's rejected shot glass for herself. Before he can take one for himself, Spencer stands.

"Uh, I- I actually think I'm gonna head back too," He wrings his hands whilst looking around the bar. It's dark, and outside the windows, they could see the night creeping in, "You know, um, there's a couple of files I need to look through- yeah." 

The pile of files in his hotel room is none existent. He takes files along with him all the time, but this case had been strenuous from the start, and he'd had no time after briefing to get any from his desk. 

Penelope grimaces, reaching out to put her hand on the table in front of him. She looks up at him, pleading, with dark eyes behind a thick pair of eyelashes.   
"Aww, Spence, stay!"

His gaze breaks away from the rest of the team, down to the floor. He scuffs his shoe against the polished wood. Huh, they really want me here, he thinks, barely withholding the surprise he feels.   
"Sorry, guys, I'll see you tomorrow," 

Spencer slings his bag over his shoulder, still avoiding the gaze of his teammates. Thing is, he loves spending time with all of them and they're some of his best friends, but he knows what bars mean. Bars mean drinks, and drinks mean things being said that weren't meant to be said and they mean being pressured into flirting with some girl he really doesn't want to flirt with.

Garcia pouts slinging a bangle-covered arm around Morgan, who's eyes are down in his drink. 

"I'll see you guys tomorrow," He stammers through his goodbyes, and the team call out a cacophony of 'See ya!'s and 'Bye Spence!'s. As he slips through the entrance and steps out onto the cold concrete of the parking lot, a wave of cool, fresh air hits him. The music dies out, now nothing more than a muffled thudding.

Hotch hasn't left yet - he's at the door of his car, and his gaze shoots up from his phone as he hears Spencer approach. 

"So, files?" He asks with a smirk, having caught the excuse as he left. Hotch seems to have a built-in lie detector, and Spencer knows his excuses are ridiculous but he's in too deep now. Beneath him, the concrete feels uneven and rough and he stumbles as he walks.   
"Pfft, yeah, tons of them. I've got a huge stack of them in my room, I really gotta get to them,"

"Really?"   
"Yeah..." Hotch hums. He tucks his phone away, eyes glazing over the younger agent knowingly. That's the thing about Hotch - he can always tell when something is up, when Spencer's mind is running sixty miles an hour but he can't find the right words. But he never pushes, never pries. He lets Spencer draw the lines in the sand and never oversteps.

"I guess you better get to work then," he muses, "Don't want to fall behind,"

There's a pregnant pause as Spencer tries to collect his thoughts. Despite the lack of music now, he still feels slightly like he's underwater. It's hard to think, so instead, he looks back at the bar. Light floods through the windows, casting long golden shadows on the ground. In combination with the music, you can hear raucous laughter, no doubt from someone on the team cracking a joke. He can feel Hotch's careful gaze on his back, waiting for him to speak.

He clears his throat, but the words come out croaky and nervous all the same. 

"I used to get bullied in school. Viciously, in fact, they'd just attack me because I was there, and an easy target.." Spencer turns to fully face Hotch now. Goosebumps are starting to raise along his arms, probably a combination of nerves and the cold evening air. 

"I was super short then, scrawny too 'cus we could barely afford to eat and even then I could only cook like, toast. So it wasn't like I could fight back." Ten, eleven year old him was small. Barely brushing 5 foot and stick thin. 

He can remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror, horrified at the sight before him. Fingers running across ribs that jutted out angrily from beneath his pallid skin, with purple bruises dotting his limbs - the malnutrition only made each mark darker, more stubborn.  
The proper growth spurt had only kicked in when he was seventeen or so, leaving him a gangly long-limbed teenager. And whilst he certainly ate better now, too, it seemed Spencer could never quite shake that skeletal, half-dead look. Now, it was accompanied by a pair of indigo bags beneath his eyes that refused to go away no matter how much sleep he got, and a head of hair that seemingly couldn't be tamed. 

He can feel Hotch's dark eyes on him, dissecting each word as he speaks. Spencer's talked briefly before about his childhood, about how his mom was often too ill to cook for him and Spencer was often picking up odd jobs on the side to cover bills. He's mentioned the bullying he endured in highschool, but never in much depth - the memories weren't ones he wanted to dig up.

"You said it yourself before, Las Vegas public school."

A shaky breath escapes his lips, and he moved to rub his arms gently to warm himself up.

"Well, highschool was violent like that. I've been shoved into lockers, bins, locked in classrooms, egged, had food spilt on me countless times, a kid threw me down three flights of stairs before someone intervened."

They were ruthless. He wondered if it was something about his age that intimidated them, or if he was just an easy target. They seemed to know he would never fight back or never tell on them.

"Did you never press charges? Did the school never do anything about it?" Hotch inquires. His dark eyebrows knit together in concern, or confusion even.   
It's a very Aaron Hotchner approach to things - methodical, rational, it's the long route but the agent acts with his head and not his heart. If he'd told the same thing to Derek, maybe even Emily, he knew they'd go for the easy approach - fight back, fight dirty, make them realise what they're up against.

Spencer laughs bitterly.

"It was always just play-fighting, they 'didn't know their own strength'," he explains, shaking his head and grimacing, "Boys will be boys, apparently."

Boys will be boys, he recalls. Four words he'd heard nearly every day throughout his highschool career, words he'd even uttered himself when his mom was lucid enough to ask about his bruises. It was the easiest excuse. Hotch scoffs in disbelief.   
"That's bull,"

"It's convenient. There was this one kid and every day he'd just choke me out in the locker rooms because he thought I was gay,"

He can't hold back the frown that tugs at his lips, picturing the strong hands wrapping around his neck, squeezing, throttling him until he felt dizzy. Some days the boy didn't even know his limits, only stopping once someone pulled him away. He can almost feel their death grip still, or the way the sharp corners of the lockers dug into his frail body, willing it to break.

"And I used to come home every day, and of course my dad would see the bruises on my neck - at least when he still lived with us." William Reid was a proud man, he always had been and would continue to be until he died. He was also careless; despite rarely laying. hand on his son, it appeared he preferred to do so inadvertently. He simply allowed the torture to continue. 

"He'd ask me how I got them and when I would explain he'd just tell me to stop acting gay and I'd stop getting beat,"

Hotch is starting to get upset now, he can feel it. The man's eyes are dark, brows furrowed, his hands clenched tightly by his sides. It's a natural reaction, of course, but Spencer can't help but feel slightly touched nonetheless.

"That's ridiculous-" He begins, but the younger agent decides it's now or never; 

"I never got the guts to tell him I was bi. I figured it'd just get rid of any sympathy he might have had for me." The words slip out, and he sees how the taller man stiffens up. He opens his mouth to say something, ready to veer onto a different subject, when Hotch surges forward. He envelops the younger man in a tight, bone-crushing hug, 

He's never really hugged Hotch before, and was unsure of what to expect. The hug brings a wave of cologne over him, and when Spencer realises its the same one his father used to wear, his heart drops into his stomach.

"It doesn't justify anything they did to you, Spencer," Hotch murmurs as he hugs the boy, all professionalism thrown out the window. It's no longer a discuss between colleagues, but between friends, and Spencer's never been so glad to know someone like Hotch. "You never did, nor will you ever deserve that."

Spencer breaks the hug first, pulling away gently. He frowns, looking down at the concrete beneath his feet.   
"I've been meaning to tell the team."

"You're scared."

"You could say that." Hotchner hums. He glances back at the bar, where the team are certainly still messing around and drinking. Morgan is most definitely chatting up a girl at the bar, Rossi is probably telling some tale from his youth, and Emily was likely in the middle of it all, drinking her troubles away.

"Look, Reid, nothing that you've suffered through was deserved. The team know that. Not only that, but I have full confidence that they will love you regardless of your orientation," Hotch states, trying to keep his voice casual, but he can't stop the authoritative yet protective sort of tone he uses with Jack from slipping through.   
"If they don't, just come to me."

"Really? You'd do that?" Spencer chuckles, stepping back and rubbing at his arms through his sleeves. Pulling away from the hug reminded him of just how cold it was outside, and goosebumps littered his skin.

"Of course. Our team could never function without everyone on board with each other. And if they can't handle the way you are, that's their problem and not yours."

"I.. thank you," He's not sure what else to say to Hotch other than to just express his gratitude. Of course, he'd expected the SSA to take the news well, but not this well, he certainly hadn't expected the man to be so willing to penalise the rest of the team for his sake. If felt.. good. Comforting.

"Now, you better go back and enjoy yourself," Hotch claps a hand on his shoulder, smiling encouragingly. He motions with his free hand back to the bar, still alive with laughter and music, and it makes Spencer feel so glaringly alone. 

"But-"

"If not I'll be forced to make you take a day off to actually have a break."

It's a stupid threat but it works - half because Spencer's really not willing to take a vacation day, but half because he knows it's what will make Hotch happy. With a dejected sigh, he says goodbye to the agent and begins towards the entrance. 

Pulling open the door, a cloud of warmth and noise collides with him at full force. He all but melts under the thick, beer-scented air, somehow managing to maintain his composure as he approaches the table where the rest of his teammates sit.

Looking up from her phone, JJ gasps. Soon a wide smile spreads across her lips, crinkling around her pale eyes.  
"You're back!" She exclaims, honeyed voice painted with joy, drawing the attention of the rest of the team - who, of course, begin to whoop and cheer. JJ tugs him into a soft hug.

"Yeah," Her grin is infectious, and he can't stop it as it begins across his own face, "Uh, Hotch said if I didn't come back he'd force me to use one of my vacation days so-"

Morgan barks a laugh. As he takes another sip of his drink, droplets of condensation run down his fingertips. Teasingly, he leans forward in his seat and mock-frowns.   
"Aww, is our company really that bad, Pretty boy?"

"Not theirs, yours," The younger agent snickers, unserruptitiously jerking his head towards Morgan. Scowling, he retaliated by pushing a cold beer into his grip.  
"You sneakily avoided that round of shots, 187, but you're not getting out of tonight on a fast pass."

"Drink up, Spence."

With a roll of his eyes, he sips from the bottle. From her seat on the table Emily peers at him. She motions with one hand to the room full of people, dancing to the awful club music with an impressive fervour.   
"You know how to dance?" She inquires, but doesn't wait long for an answer. Instead, she grasps his sleeve and all but drags him to the floor. 

The crowd around them is everything Spencer hates. The air is stale with the stench of alchol and sweat, music seems to travel through the mass of people much more aggressively - he can feel the drums pounding into his heart, shaking him to the core. Emily's a natural, it's like she was born to dance as she moves. But her eyes remain locked on Spencer, frustration brewing in those dark irises, and soon her hands land on his shoulders. 

"God, Reid, just try and feel the music!" It's difficult to hear much in the crowds, so she has to raise her voice despite their proximity. Her hands will him to move to the music.  
"I'm not a dancer, Emily,"

"You just need to loosen up a little. What, you never went clubbing with a girl?" She lifts one arm of his up, knotting their fingers together as she twirls. It's a playful, silly move that reminds him of kindergarten or elementary school, being forced to play princes and princesses on the playground because apparently everything else was too violent (according to his teachers, atleast).

"Once, college." One of her thin, manicured eyebrows rises, and she quirks her scarlet lips with a smirk. He decides it's a wonder all that red lipstick isn't smudged everywhere. 

"Bet she was disappointed,"

"He didn't mind. Preferred a night in, really," Spencer's unsure if it's the dancing that's loosened her grip on his hands or the sudden surprise. Either way, her hands drop to her sides, and she appears slightly surprised. 

"..Oh." She murmurs, and he feels like he's got it all figured out.

"Why don't you dance with JJ instead of trying to make her jealous?" he asks, "I'm sure she'd say yes if you asked."

Across the bar, JJ looks lonely. Stray strands of her straight, golden hair hover over her face, obscuring her neatly applied makeup and making her look slightly worn out. She hasn't been dancing all night, in fact, she's spent most of her time so far at the table, pink lips downturned and gaze at the floor. 

Emily's hands are still planted on his shoulders, but he can feel how her grip tightens. Her eyes follow his across the bar, through the crowds of people, and she softens.   
"What are you talking about?" The agent tries to recover her demeanour quickly, loosening her grip and trying to get him to move to the music once more. It doesn't work. It never would have and she knows it - he grasps her wrist, and leans in close.

"You know what I'm talking about, Emily," He says, voice in a low but knowing tone, "I've seen the way she looks at you,"

Emily's pale face is hard to see in the dim light of the bad, but he can tell she's blushing wildly. Her gaze averts, shooting to the ground, and her arms fold tightly.   
"I-" 

"Go." With a gentle push on the small of her back, Emily stumbles in the direction of JJ. Spencer watches, carefully, and begins to weave out the crowd. He slips into his seat at the table, where Rossi, Penelope and Morgan sit. Taking a sip from his drink, Morgan smirks at him;

"Dancing not your thing, Reid?"

"Never was." He huffs, a stray piece of brown hair floating as he does, and sips his drink. The cool liquid hits the back of his throat, and it grounds him, makes him feel less awkward in the overwhelming bar. From the seat opposite him, Rossi chuckles. 

"Back in my day, the kids used to party day and night. That's how I met Carolyn, my first wife, you know," he informs them, and the table have to suppress a groan. Rossi was an entertaining guy, because he always had a relevant story on hand that could crack the team up. Except they'd all heard the tales about his past wives about six million times, and at this point they were over it. 

"You and your hundred wives," Derek rubs his hands over his face and groans. His chair creaks as he leans back in it, "I'm sure I've heard about each one a thousand times,"

"Got any better stories to tell?" Spencer asks. Dejectedly, Rossi concedes, falling back into his own chair. He narrows his eyes at the brown-haired agent. 

"Well, fine then. I'm sure your relationship tales are far more interesting."

"Ros-" The objection goes ignored by Rossi, who just takes a long sip of his drink. Penelope laughs. She pushes up her glasses and peers curiously at Spencer.

"Aw, come on Spence, you gotta have something!"

"Speak up, Pretty Boy," Morgan insists, and he frowns. He begins to wrack his memory for any interesting stories to tell, since he thinks the team won't be all too interested in hearing about his last chess tournament, in which his opponent had been on the brink of throttling him.

"Uh, I.. When I was 20, and still living on campus at Caltech," As he begins to slowly speak, he can feel his lips curl upwards at the memory. "I came back to my apartment after a class. The apartment was really small and the walls were thin so I could always tell when someone was there."

He can recall the exact apartment, with its rooms. They'd spent every evening eating dinner, usually ramen noodles because they really couldn't afford anything else, on the couch watching Friends or Seinfeld reruns.

"My roommate was sat on the ground with the scraggliest puppy I've ever seen, it was all covered in dirt and stuff."

He remembers the dog - it was a tiny thing, small enough that he could easily scoop it up with one arm. It's fur was covered in mud from the rain.

"A dog?" Morgan and Penelope ask in unison - except Morgan's voice is filled with disbelief, whilst Penelope sounds in love with the picture of him with a puppy.

"He said he found it crying in a dumpster, so he took the dog home, made me give it a bath so it'd stop leaving muddy paw prints everywhere." He laughs at the memory. The dog hated sitting in the bath, skidding its paws along the porcelain trying to hop out but it just wasn't big enough.   
Eventually, it calmed down enough to let Spencer gently wash its fur with warm water. Soon enough the puppy'd been showering him with sloppy kisses and demanding belly rubs.

"What'd you name it? What breed?"

"Spaniel. My boyfrie- roommate wanted to name it Vegas, since he said it looked like me, but we ended up naming him Bateman, since he went and saw American Psycho and loved it,"

There's a brief pause, perhaps of disbelief, before Morgan chuckles.  
"You named your dog after a fictional serial killer?" 

"Hey, it was before I joined the BAU!" Spencer tried to argue but it doesn't work - it's a silly name for a dog, especially one as none-threatening and tiny as Bateman had been. He leans back in his chair, hoping that his slip up had gone unnoticed. 

It hadn't. 

"So, boyfriend, huh?" Rossi wiggles his eyebrows. With a nervous chuckle, the younger agent taps his fingers against the table.

"Yeah, I, uh, I'm bi. We broke up before I joined the team."

Relief floods through his body. It's like every muscle simultaneously relaxes, and he's surprised he managed to keep his composure. 

"Huh. Good on you, kid," The man claps him on the shoulder, "I'm proud of you."

Huh, Spencer thought. Maybe that wasn't the end of the world.


End file.
